The thin red line between heaven and hell was stretched to the
point of transparency last weekend, and through it one could watch the pretentious
and the dumb gazing at each others navels in the art/life mirror. The Club,
with it's history of finding daft ways to say clever things , would have to
side with the latter if it was an issue, but our interests lay elsewhere.

Clubland is a youth centre built in the thirties and maintained
since then by the Methodist church it incorporates; it also houses a cinema,
theatre, canteen ,gymnasium (complete with ash trays at regular intervals) and
even a sick bay for the pre-NHS children it catered for. The funds to build
it were raised by the Reverend Jimmy Butterworth who toured America in search
of donations, persuading many stars of Hollywood to pledge money. His study
is lined with the photographic evidence of his conquests which include a picture
of Bob Hope and Bing Crosby sauntering down the Walworth Road to view their
investment while Little Jimmy scuttles along behind them. A tiny man who liked
to be photographed in tophat and shorts, (this was before we knew better than
to allow the clergy unrestricted access to minors) Jimmy can also be seen gazing
up at the 'statuesque' Mickey Rooney. The Walworth Road is still a bleak and
despondent place at night and once the metal shutters have blocked the neon
light from the shops people hurry indoors before dark . The only sound over
the traffic is that of police incident boards, chained to lamp-posts, rattling
in the wind. So it was quite something that over the twenty four hours of this
event hundreds of people attended; unfortunately, given the size of the place,
it never felt like more than fifty.

So how did a band of raggedy arsed artists and their nincompoop
pals get to desecrate these premises, and what of it? Why was the gymnasium
a foot deep in peat while a naked giant displayed his hessian and horsehair
genitalia? Why was a girl in a leather dress having eggs broken on her elbows
as cornflakes were poured down her cleavage?I dare say that Saturday's wedding
party, or the congregation who shuffled in at 9.00am for the Sunday morning
service are asking the same question, or the throng of worshippers who invaded
the Cybernet Cafe at 3.00pm for a memorial service. Church business took priority.
and so did its rules of behaviour. The 'no alcohol allowed on the premises'
rule was being stricty enforced by a blind vigilante, mine-sweeping for tinnies
with his white stick whilst being led about by his wife( who bore a stricking
resemblance to Rosemary West). He was frustrated at being able to smell the
whisky in the Coke bottles and hear the distant ring-pull of a Grolsch can while
his wife could find no evidence. A hole was kicked through the fence onto wasteland
opposite Clubland, and an impromptu bar arranged as small bonfires sprang up.
The ' noise curfew' of 11.pm was equally un-enforceable.

Meanwhile, back in the canteen, visitors struggled with defective
Atari keyboards and obsolete Macs interspersed with platters of luncheon meat
sandwiches or plates of jammy dodgers. Those who braved the inefficient and
curmudgeonly service were rewarded with 'mince on toast', ' peas on toast' or
'tomatoes on toast' and a mug of stewed tea with sterilised milk. . The one
catering concession -made to complement the new technology - was the addition
of' cappuchino' to the drinks list. Made with Tesco-value instant coffee and
a squirt of aerosol cream it was as authentic as anything Pellici's might offer.

Vic,meanwhile, persevered with his intention to play on the canteen stage for
twenty minutes every two hours, if only to frustrate the gaggle of nitwits waiting
to re-enact childhood nightmares or perform 'contemporary ballads'. Thanks to
Ken Ardley for attending; after seven years keeping his Playboys on the road
he is no stranger to apathy and indifference, and as he perched on a case of
tinned mince behind the counter of the 'Cybernet Cafe' and sipped flat Grolsch
from a teamug it must have given him no satisfaction to gaze across a near empty
hall to see Vic regale the few with his myths of arson, theft and dogslaughter
, his erratic strumming foiled by the flat PP9 of the drum machine.